I Have Become My Mother

It has happened.

Despite years of resistance, denial and possibly a little eye-rolling, I have become my mother.

I save rubber bands. Not all rubber bands, mind you. I do have standards. But a perfectly good rubber band? You don't throw that away. It goes in the drawer with the other 147 perfectly good rubber bands.

And pens.

If a bank, insurance agent, doctor's office or local business puts its name on an ink pen and leaves it sitting there for customers, I consider that an invitation. Thank you very much. I'll give it a good home. My mother would be proud.

The evidence has been piling up for some time, but apparently I wasn't paying attention.

Recently, I started saving celery tops in the freezer for making broth. Then I found myself wondering whether carrot tops could go in there, too. I now have a freezer bag specifically designated for vegetable scraps.

A freezer bag for vegetable scraps.

Young Me would not recognize this woman. Young Me bought broth at the grocery store. She threw celery tops in the garbage. She probably threw away perfectly good rubber bands, too. She was reckless.

I've also rediscovered the ancient art of cooking enough food for two meals and freezing half.  Soup especially. And spaghetti sauce.

Why make one pot of soup when you can make one pot of soup and get TWO dinners out of it? This is the kind of logic my mother tried to explain to me decades ago, when I had absolutely no interest in hearing it.  Now when I open the freezer and discover a container of homemade soup I froze three weeks ago I feel as though someone has sent me a present.

From me. To me. And exactly the right size.

Then there are buttons. A button falls off, and I sew it back on. I don't throw the shirt away or give it to Goodwill. I don't announce that the shirt is defective. I don't decide I've been meaning to buy a new one anyway.

I get out a needle and thread. Somewhere, my mother is saying, "Well, of course you do."

I've even become a person who looks at something before throwing it away and thinks:

Could I use this for something?

This is dangerous territory.

This is how you end up with a drawer full of rubber bands, a collection of promotional pens, three containers you're saving because they're "a good size," and frozen vegetable scraps waiting to become chicken broth.

There is, however, a fine line between becoming your mother and becoming a candidate for a television show about hoarding. I'm trying to stay on the correct side of that line. Mostly.

The funny thing is, I used to think all these little habits were about being frugal. Now I think they were about something else, too.

My mother's generation didn't automatically throw things away when they could still be useful. Food wasn't garbage just because it was left over. A missing button didn't make a shirt unwearable. Something free didn't need to be fancy to be useful.

And making tomorrow's dinner while you're making tonight’s? That's not being cheap. That's being smart.

It has taken me only 74 years to figure this out.

So yes, I save rubber bands.

I take the free pens.

I freeze the second batch of soup.

I sew on buttons.

And somewhere in my freezer is a bag of celery tops and other vegetable odds and ends waiting for their moment of glory.

I have become my mother.

And I'm beginning to think that might not be such a bad thing after all.

And yes, if there's nothing stuck to the aluminum foil, I fold it up and use it again.

But I do NOT wash out Ziplock bags.

There have to be boundaries.

AGE DISCRIMINATION!

I've been mildly annoyed this week.

Not seriously annoyed. Nobody has wronged me. I haven't written a letter to the editor. Yet. Just a collection of itty-bitty annoyances that have made me wonder whether the entire modern world is being designed by 27-year-olds with perfect eyesight, excellent hearing, and phones permanently attached to their hands.

For example, why can I do something on an app on my phone, but NOT on the same company's website on my perfectly lovely laptop? I HAVE A BIG SCREEN FOR A REASON.

And unsubscribe buttons. Apparently there is a federal requirement that the word UNSUBSCRIBE be printed smaller than one-tenth of a grain of rice, preferably in pale gray at the very bottom of an email.

Then there are restaurants. I like restaurants. I like eating. I like talking to the people I'm eating with.
I just can't do all three when the background music is loud enough for a nightclub and 47 other people are shouting to be heard over it. Could we turn it down just a smidge?

While we're at the restaurant, could I please have an actual menu? I can use a QR code. I KNOW how to use a QR code. I just don't particularly want to spend dinner scrolling around my phone trying to figure out whether the salmon comes with asparagus. And could we turn up the lights enough that I can SEE the menu?

Other tiny grievances:
Why are instructions printed in microscopic type?
Why does everything need a password?
Why does my dishwasher need Wi-Fi?
Why does a light bulb need an app?
Why does it take a knife, scissors and possibly a chain saw to open a package of batteries?
Why do automatic faucets occasionally decide I don't have hands?

Why do websites use light grey type?

Why does “customer service” now mean spending 20 minutes arguing with a robot that keeps saying, “I understand you want help with your account”?  No. You don't understand. If you understood, you'd let me talk to Susan.

None of these things is legally age discrimination, of course. But sometimes it does feel as though the world is being redesigned around people who can see tiny print, hear conversations over background noise, remember 84 passwords, and consider a six-inch phone screen preferable to a 13-inch laptop.

I'm not asking civilization to turn back the clock. I LIKE technology. I use it every day. I would just like technology to occasionally remember that some of us have reading glasses. (And magnifying glasses). And hearing aids. And laptops.

And we still have money to spend.

So perhaps the next time somebody designs an app, a restaurant, a package, a website or an unsubscribe button, they could invite one person over 70 into the room.

We'll bring our reading glasses.

And opinions.

THE BANK OF GRAMMA

Somewhere along the way, without an application, a banking charter or even one of those little pens chained to a counter, I apparently opened a financial institution.
Welcome to the Bank of Gramma.

We offer checking, savings, credit, transportation, emergency funding and extremely questionable lending practices. Our lobby is open approximately 24 hours a day, although management gets cranky after 9 p.m.
My grandsons are now 12½ and almost 16, which means money has become much more interesting than it was when five dollars seemed like a fortune.

The almost-16-year-old has turned to buying and selling used (now called vintage) clothing into an actual business. And I don't mean occasionally selling an old sweatshirt.  Recently he sold a sweatshirt he'd bought for $200 for $625.  I am simultaneously impressed and wondering what has happened to civilization.

Because he's still a minor, his online sales have been going through my account. So every so often the Bank of Gramma receives a deposit that makes me feel temporarily prosperous.

Unfortunately, it isn't my money. This is a terrible system. And he wants cash once it’s hit my account.  I have to replenish CASH almost every week. The good news is that he understands the concept of buying low and selling high better than many adults. The bad news is that I would also like him to understand another fascinating financial concept:

Saving.

He already has a savings account with $500 in it, (courtesy of the Bank of Gramma.) And with driving age approaching, I have visions of him actually walking into our nearby credit union and depositing some of his profits toward a future car.

Yes. WALKING INTO A BANK.

I realize this makes me sound approximately 112 years old. A new branch of our credit union is opening at the end of October and it is just five blocks from home.

Meanwhile, his younger brother has his own financial system. At 12½, his spending priorities tend toward food, drinks and activities with friends. Somehow a few dollars here and there can disappear with astonishing speed.

I can't really criticize. At his age, I probably would have spent my money on something equally essential. Like a 45-rpm record and a bottle of Coca-Cola.

What fascinates me is how much the mechanics of teaching kids about money have changed.

Mr. 12½ rarely sees actual cash. Money appears on his phone. Purchases happen with a tap. He earns his money doing projects for me.  Deep cleaning our pantry and disposing of expired items.  Cleaning my five floor to ceiling IKEA shelving units by taking everything OFF a shelf, cleaning, sorting through and filling the Goodwill basket then putting everything back in better order.  He’s even cleaned the fridge! (I can’t kneel down and get that bottom shelf and the bins).

Clothing is bought online, sold online and shipped to someone they've never met. The teenager can make hundreds of dollars while sitting in his bedroom. And Grandma can sit in her room watching the transactions go through her checking account while muttering, "Whose $87.42 is THIS?"

So I'm trying to teach the same lessons my generation learned, only in a completely different world:

Some money is for spending.
Some money is for saving.
Credit is not free money.

And if Grandma fronts you $20, Grandma remembers (although she does have to write it down these days).
The Bank of Gramma may have generous lending policies, but our accounting department is ruthless.
And she's had coffee.

Things I’ve Learned NOT to Fix

One of the great myths about getting older is that you become wise.  You do not. You simply accumulate a very large collection of opinions based on having already made most of the available mistakes. The problem is that nobody necessarily wants those opinions.

This is particularly difficult when you live with your adult children and their children. I have decades of experience being a mother. I successfully raised a child all the way to adulthood. I kept them alive. I navigated schools, illnesses, teenagers, driving, dating and countless other crises.

You would think this would make me an invaluable household resource.  Apparently not.

One of the things I'm still learning is how to stay on my side of the street.  This is harder than it sounds.

My kidults let the boys do things I would never have considered when I was raising her. Sometimes I watch a parenting decision unfold and every cell in my 74-year-old body wants to stand up and announce:

“I HAVE SOME EXPERIENCE WITH THIS.”

Instead, I am learning to say nothing.

Well, mostly nothing.

For example, I have learned that the precise location of a teenage boy's waistband is not my responsibility.

Apparently pants can now be worn at a latitude that allows the general public to admire a considerable portion of their underwear. I don't understand it. I don't like it. And I have discovered that pulling someone else's pants up is frowned upon.

So I stay on my side of the street.

I have also learned that $50 is apparently a perfectly reasonable amount to spend on face cleanser.

Fifty dollars!

For something whose entire job is to be applied to your face and then immediately washed down the drain. I am from the generation that believed soap had pretty much cracked this problem.

But I don't have to fix it.

Then there is the $170 back to school backpack.

I should clarify. The backpack had previously been purchased by his brother — also used — for $200.

So apparently this wasn't reckless spending at all.

He saved $30.

I am still adjusting to an economy in which a used backpack can circulate among teenage boys for sums of money that I associate with small appliances.

When I was younger, used meant somebody else had owned it first and therefore it should cost less.

Today, we call it vintage.

For $170, I feel the backpack should carry me.

But this morning provided an excellent opportunity to practice my new philosophy.

My grandson is holding a garage sale of his used clothing in our condo clubhouse today. I was under the impression that his father would be there with him.

Apparently I was mistaken.

My first instinct was, naturally, to FIX THIS.

Is he old enough? Is this allowed? Can you actually use the clubhouse to make money? Does an adult have to be present?

So I did what any grandmother attempting to stay out of things would do.

I looked up the Clubhouse Guidelines.

There is no age requirement.  Residents are allowed to hold events where they make money. In other words, there was absolutely nothing for me to fix.

This was extremely disappointing.

So today a 15-year-old is next door conducting commerce while I am in my room trying to stay on my side of the street.

I may need two Tylenol.

And I'm slowly discovering that this lesson extends well beyond teenage boys.

I don't have to fix every disagreement.

I don't have to fix every bad mood.

I don't have to point out every mistake before somebody makes it.

That last one is particularly painful.

Because I KNOW WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN.

I've already been down that road. I know where the potholes are. I know there's construction ahead. I know the bridge is out. And yet sometimes the people I love need to drive down the road themselves.

Friends don't always need solutions. Volunteer organizations don't need me to correct every inefficient procedure. Other adults are allowed to make choices I wouldn't make.

This has been quite a revelation.

There was a time when I thought being helpful meant helping. Now I'm beginning to understand that sometimes being helpful means keeping my mouth shut.

I am not always successful.

But I'm getting better.

These days, when I feel the overwhelming urge to straighten out someone else's life, I try to remember one simple rule:

Stay on your side of the street.

There's plenty over here that needs fixing.

They Don’t Want My Cherished Treasures

I have downsized. 

Repeatedly.

At one time I owned seven sets of dishes. Yes, seven. And that doesn't count the two sets of Christmas dishes. Before you call the china police, there was a reason. Ralph and I entertained. A lot.

Our cooking club

We had dinner parties. Holiday dinners. Summer parties, large and small, that spilled out onto the decks and into the yard. We had enough outdoor furniture to seat a small municipality. I set tables with placemats and cloth napkins and flowers and wine glasses. I apparently believed that every meal deserved its own coordinating dishware.

(lower deck)

(upper deck)

   

(off the lower deck to tiny yard)

And I loved it.

One of our sets of Christmas dishes was a wedding gift from Ralph's mother. That sentence alone explains why I still own them. They aren't just plates. They come with a person attached.

Christmas

Make your own sushi party

That's the trouble with getting rid of things when you're older.

Everything comes with somebody attached.

I've already done the serious downsizing. Most of those seven sets of dishes are long gone. What remains is our everyday stuff, the two Christmas sets, and what I still call the good stuff.

Except now I'm living with millennials.

I've been living with my family for ten years, and in all that time I don't think they've ever had people over. For anything, let alone for dinner.

Not once.

This is baffling to a woman who once considered having the right cloth cocktail napkins a basic life skill. To be fair, at this point we couldn’t entertain if we wanted to.

Our dining area contains a full-size freezer because two teenage eating machines live here. Beside the freezer are fishing poles and soccer balls. There is a bicycle. An electric scooter is plugged in somewhere among all of this.

And, as I write this, the bench seat from our 2014 Honda Odyssey is sitting in front of the fireplace.

Martha Stewart does not live here.

Once upon a time, I worried about whether the napkins coordinated with the placemats. Today, I would just be happy if nobody had to move a soccer ball to get to the freezer.

Somewhere in storage my good china is waiting patiently for civilization to return.

But they don't want my good china. They don't want the silver. They don't want the serving pieces. I'm fairly certain that if I left them a handwritten inventory explaining the provenance of every platter and gravy boat, they would use it to locate the nearest Goodwill.

I don't blame them. Well, perhaps three percent of me blames them.

Their lives are different. Entertaining is different. Homes are different. Families are different. Nobody seems terribly interested anymore in owning a special plate that must be hand-washed and carefully returned to a quilted storage case so it can wait eleven months for another appearance.

Come to think of it, that's a fairly ridiculous job description for a plate.

But here's the part I'm struggling with:

I don't necessarily want the things anymore, either. I want what happened around them.

I want the Christmas table with every chair occupied. I want friends arriving through the door. I want Ralph there. I want the summer evening when people wandered from one deck to another with a drink in their hands. I want the anticipation of setting the table before everyone arrived.

And Goodwill, annoyingly, does not have a donation category for that.

So I'm downsizing again.

This time I'm going through the things that survived all the previous purges precisely because they weren't stuff. They were treasures.

Some I'll keep. Some I'll sell. Some I'll give away. And I'll probably pick up each one and tell myself its entire life story before I let it go.

Because apparently that's how I downsize.

One memory at a time.

Condo when Ralph and I lived there

Before They Were Mom and Dad

I’ve been watching The Waltons.

That may be partly responsible for sending me down this particular rabbit hole. Watching that family live through the Depression made me think about my own parents—not as Mom and Dad, but as children growing up in a world I can hardly imagine.  I remember stories about only being allowed to wear shoes to school or church.

My Dad was born in 1921 in Carbon Hill, Ohio, a tiny coal-mining community in Hocking County. His family had come a long way to get there … from Germany before immigrating to America and eventually settling in Ohio.

But genealogy gives you names and dates. It doesn't tell you what it felt like to be a little boy.  The following year's census gives us one of those cold little facts that suddenly feels anything but cold: Dad and his father were listed as boarders.

What was that like for an eight-year-old boy who had just lost his mother?  She died in childbirth and baby William was adopted into another family and disappeared from their everyday lives (although, wonderfully, he reconnected with the family many years later).

My mother's childhood wasn't exactly Leave It to Beaver, either.  She was one of eleven children (born in 1927) growing up in Columbus, Ohio. Her father was an alcoholic. On payday and  there was money to be had, Grandma sometimes sent one of the younger children down to the bar to get some of it from him before he drank it all. (He eventually died of cirrhosis of the liver).
And Mom carried another reminder of childhood right on her face. When she was about two years old, she put the hot end of an electrical iron cord in her mouth. It left her with a terrible scar near her mouth. I imagine that scar bothered her far more than it ever bothered my father.

Because after the war, Dad met her at a tiny diner enjoying a malted with her sister.  And he thought she was beautiful.

Of all the dates and names and census records in a 108-page family genealogy someone prepared for me years ago, that may be the piece of family history that matters most to me.

Two people came out of childhoods that were hard in ways their own children would never fully understand. One lost his mother when he was eight. One grew up in a house with ten siblings and an alcoholic father. Neither came from anything resembling the comfortable, protected childhoods we hope to give children today.

Yet somehow they got from there to me.

I can trace one branch of my family back to Germany and another to England. There are immigrants, farmers, soldiers, coal-country families and even a Revolutionary War captain tucked into those 108 pages.
That's interesting.

But I'm beginning to think family history isn't really about seeing how far backward we can go.  It's about going back just far enough to understand the people we actually knew.

I knew Mom and Dad.

I'm only now beginning to understand the children they once were.

Dad and Me and Mom 1953